Last year I wrote a poem for Holy Saturday, with a warning that it was likely not ready for public consumption. This Holy Saturday I've sanded it down a fair bit, and while it is still raw, it gets at something desperate that this day is all about in the cycle of Holy Week.

Oh God, I miss you.

I feel it heavy this morning.

I thought I could always come back –walk away for a thousand miles and turn aroundto see you keeping pace in secret.

Always with me.

I cannot feel your breath on my neck andI cannot hear your footsteps.

There are no footprints in the sand.

When did you turn back?

All I find are questions now.

Is this heart-hole some holy proof?

Philosophy makes me seasick–I just miss you.

You were always a shoreline.Unmovable.Tideless.

I could swim back to youany day I wanted.

If I had wanted.

I cannot see the shore now.

I don't remember how to swim.

I have become afraidof water.

Living water–That’s what you offered me.

Living words.

I bought a new Bible last summer, but I lost it a month later.

I am losing.

Where in the hell are you?

Every day is Holy Saturday–A promisebarely visiblethrough the fog of loss